Chapter 75

“It must become a sacred land for mages.”

The count walked through his mansion.
Servants passing by bowed deeply in greeting, but he either failed to notice them or merely gave a perfunctory nod.
It wasn’t because he ignored them—his mind was simply too full of thoughts.

Whenever contemplation seized him, it had long been his habit to wander aimlessly.
Most often, he did so atop the walls of Winterband Fortress.
Gazing at the White Serpent Mountain Range stretching across the vast frozen wasteland, he would ponder the future amid the cold and desolation—
defensive plans, strategies, troop redeployments, the movements of hostile tribes and magical beasts, relations with vassals and collateral families, diplomacy with other nobles, estate management, soldiers’ wages and supplies.
There was never an end to his concerns.

But now, the count was in his mansion, lost in thoughts different from before.
Though he believed he was wandering without purpose, his steps had unconsciously led him to the central courtyard of the main building.

A small garden enclosed by three-story walls.
At its center stood an oak tree planted over a century ago, when his predecessor had been exiled to this frontier.
Now nearing a hundred years of life, it had grown into a towering giant.

Yet the count’s gaze was not on the tree, but beneath it.

The blue flowers that had once withered during Isaac’s absence were now in full bloom again.
They were brought from the demonic realm by his wife—plants that fed not on soil or sunlight, but on mana.
Isaac’s chamber was on the second floor overlooking this courtyard.
The vitality of the flowers meant that Isaac’s peculiar constitution remained unchanged.

When Isaac resisted the count’s mana while trying to save the marquis,
the count had thought the condition was cured—
but it wasn’t.
Isaac had not escaped it; he was controlling it.

How such a thing was possible, even the count could not understand.

“...Adele.”

The name slipped from his lips.

Whenever she returned briefly from her long journeys, Adele would first check these flowers—
hoping, even faintly, that Isaac’s illness might have been cured.
Where in the vast continent might she be wandering now?

Before Isaac’s condition manifested, the courtyard had been different.
It was a place where Adele, Isaac, and Jonas would stroll leisurely.
They used to tie a swing to the oak branch and play there.

The count remembered.

When Isaac was born, he had stood here for a long time.
Snow fell endlessly that day.
Adele endured labor pains for two days straight.
For an ordinary woman, it would have been life-threatening.

But Adele was a warrior before she was his wife.
Thanks to that, both she and Isaac survived.

The room on the second floor—now Isaac’s chamber—was where Adele had given birth.
The count recalled that moment vividly.
When Isaac first cried upon breathing the air of the world—
that moment.

How joyful he had been.
How astonishing it was that gratitude filled the heart of a man who had never been devout.

Just like then, the count looked up at the second-floor window.

It was a quiet afternoon.
He gazed at the curtained window with worry etched on his face, then turned away.
It was not the right time to reveal a father’s anxious heart.

The festering rot that had accumulated in the city had burst open.
Goethe had decided to cut out the rot and replace it with new flesh.
Though it was Isaac’s will, it was also the count’s.

Now was the time to focus on that change.

***

“You want to send a maid to the competition?”

With a pipe in his mouth, the count stared silently at Isaac.

“Yes.”

“And your reason?”

The count no longer asked Isaac for a simple yes or no.
He asked for reasons first.

“Because I cannot use magic.”

“You endured my mana to save the marquis.”

Though the terms mana and magical power were often used interchangeably,
the count now referred to the latter in its distinct sense.
When a caster’s will is infused into natural mana, it becomes magical power.
Like ink dropped into water, mana imbued with intent changes its nature according to the caster’s will.
By some definitions, that alone could already be called magic—
especially for a mage of the count’s level.

“When will you tell me the truth?”

The count was officially a 5th-class mage.
Beyond the 6th class lay the realm of transcendence, where such classifications lost meaning.
In other words, he had reached the highest level a typical mage could attain.

Within the kingdom, only two others stood at that level:
Clavius, the king’s advisor and sage,
and Kreutz, master of the Blue Magic Tower.

And yet, Isaac had endured the count’s mana—charged with anger.
Even seasoned mages would struggle to withstand it.
That feat alone was beyond casting lower-tier spells.

“At least, not yet.”

Isaac’s answer was neither affirmation nor denial.

“Then what am I supposed to trust when I send that maid in your place?
Is she some once-in-a-century genius?”

“No.”

“Then is she a secret disciple of some renowned mage?”

“No.”

“Then why should I grant your request?”

“I can at least show you this level of achievement.”

Fwoosh!

Flames ignited at Isaac’s fingertips.

The count took a deep drag from his pipe and exhaled.

The flame Isaac conjured was bright and refined.
The mana was steadily condensed and maintained without wavering, and the elemental transformation was smooth and natural.
It was not something achievable in a short time.

But fire magic—no matter how refined—was still the most basic form.

“This isn’t enough.”

“I’m not finished yet.”

The blazing red flame soon turned blue.

“...!”

This was no longer first-class magic.
At least third-class—requiring highly condensed mana.

Blue flames burned hotter and carried greater destructive power than red.
Depending on how they were manipulated, they could melt metal in an instant.

But Isaac was not done.

The air around him began to hum.
The intense heat caused it to expand and vibrate.

The blue flame shifted again—into a pale violet.

Though no larger than a fingernail, the density of mana it contained was unmistakable.
The air shimmered, distorting the sunlight into waves of heat haze.

Even from two steps away, the count felt as if his skin might burn.
He had to draw up a bit of mana to protect himself.

Then—

The flame vanished instantly.

“My apologies. I was concentrating.”

Isaac himself was unharmed, but his surroundings were not.
The count opened the window as the smell of burning paper filled the room.

Books and documents near Isaac were scorched red,
even papers farther away had their edges shriveled.

The corner of the desk closest to the flame was charred,
a faint red glow fading as a thin trail of black smoke rose from it.

The boy with an aged soul wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.
He looked dissatisfied.

It was the first time in both his lives that he demonstrated magic before his father.
He had wanted it to be perfect.
But there had been minor flaws—
flaws only he could perceive, after dedicating over sixty years to magic.

“Will this suffice?”

“.......”

“Father.”

The count’s mouth hung slightly open.
The pipe in his mouth dangled precariously from his teeth.

“How many… how many rings did you weave?”

He had already heard from Waller that Isaac could use magic now.
But the level—
this was beyond anything the count had imagined.

“As you know, my vessel cannot form rings.”

“Then…?”

“I will explain everything in detail later, when the time is right.”

The count was already burdened with overwhelming duties and facing great upheaval.
Isaac had no intention of adding further confusion.

He knew that the moment he explained, the count—head of the family, lord of the territory, and father—would be forced into immense turmoil.
The knowledge Isaac used to overcome his peculiar constitution came from decades into the future.
Moreover, casting magic without forming rings was closest to the cultivation method of Zik von Goethe.
It would only deepen the count’s worries.

“…How skilled is that maid?”

After a brief pause, the count gave up pressing further and instead spoke of what lay ahead.
He knew his son was not someone who would answer under pressure.

“She succeeded in mana condensation within two hours.”

“She has exceptional talent. But there are less than two months left until the competition.”

“I will teach her proper magic within that time.”

“There will be strong opposition from collateral families and vassals. I know you value people regardless of status. However, the competition is another chessboard. If you intend to send a representative, it would be wiser—even at a cost—to hire someone of proper lineage.”

The count voiced his concern, having grasped Isaac’s intent.
No one understood better than him why Isaac needed to hide his magical ability.

Isaac worried about the family, but in truth, if it became known that he had overcome his condition, the one in the greatest danger would be Isaac himself.
The royal family—unwilling to see a repeat of the tragedy a century ago when the capital burned—would likely condemn him to death.
The danger to Goethe would come after that.

“No noble will welcome a commoner using magic. Just as the clergy of the old faith call mages heretics, believing magic to be a divine power granted by the gods.”

“That’s true.”

Isaac nodded calmly.

A commoner using magic—
and surpassing the children of noble mage families, as Isaac intended—
would directly challenge noble privilege.
It would create discomfort, breed resentment, and inevitably cause unrest.

“But that is exactly what I want.”

“Why?”

“In the future, Goethe will need many mages. If we insist on lineage, we won’t be able to meet that demand.”

Isaac answered without hesitation.

“So you intend to recruit talented commoners?”

“More than that.”

“More?”

“If Goethe is to stand firm, the title of a mere ‘mage family’ is not enough. Goethe must become something beyond that.”

There was a reason Isaac had demonstrated the limits of fire magic while accelerating multiple circulation paths in front of the count.
He now revealed it.

It was one of the aspirations he had dreamed of his entire life—
something that would take a very long time, but whose foundation must be laid from now on.

“In religious terms, something like a sacred, inviolable domain. Goethe… must become a holy land for mages.”

***

On a low hill a short distance from Bern City lay a communal cemetery for the poor.
For a single silver coin, one could secure a resting place for eternity.

Eight bodies were buried there.
All were members of Weissman.

They were not buried there due to lack of money.
They had nowhere to return to, and they held no citizenship in Bern.

Three aura users from the vanguard had died meaninglessly to crossbow bolts.
The remaining five succumbed to severe injuries sustained while fighting off mercenaries.

After paying their respects, the members of Weissman dispersed in small groups.
Everyone needed a drink.

Most had left, but two remained at the cemetery—
Violet and Gerald.

Pallich, who had always assisted Violet like a shadow, was now incapacitated after being struck by three bolts.

“It’s getting dark. We should go.”

Gerald spoke while watching the fading sunset.
A gravedigger approached slowly with a lantern, ensuring that stray dogs would not dig up the bodies at night.

“……”

Violet simply stared at the graves and prayed.
She neither closed her eyes nor clasped her hands.
She only prayed inwardly—
for their rest, for their peace.

She was not particularly devout.
It was simply the only thing she could do for the dead.

“Commander.”

Gerald called her again when she did not respond.

A bleak wind blew.
It was not natural—it was stirred by spirits reacting to her emotions.

“Let’s go.”

Violet spoke as if releasing a sigh.
She and Gerald nodded to the approaching gravedigger and slowly descended the hill.

“Is your hand any better?”

Looking out at the faintly glowing lights of Bern in the distance, Violet asked.

“It’s healing well. Still itchy, and I can’t put strength into it yet.”

Gerald flexed his hand a few times as he answered.
It would take months for his torn nails to regrow.
It would take just as long to fully bury the loss of his comrades in his heart.

“So today’s the day. Do you think that boy will keep his promise?”

Gerald had repeatedly expressed doubt about joining hands with Goethe.
It wasn’t just because of lingering resentment toward Isaac.

To the marquis, Weissman had been a reliable force that could be used cheaply.
But to the count, they were nothing more than a gang.
A potential threat.

“He will.”

Violet answered.

But her voice lacked certainty.

Exiles had no homeland to shield them.
They had to be prepared for betrayal at any time.
For them, vengeance was something only they themselves could enact.

The only reason they had stayed with the marquis for five years was because he was a man who kept his promises.

“We must be careful. The nobles of this kingdom cannot be trusted.”

Gerald spoke indirectly.

If Goethe intended to eliminate Weissman, now would be the perfect time.
With the marquis and a great house already brought down, Weissman had served its purpose.

They had detected and dismantled the incoming mercenaries, and blocked the private troops of a great house.
Their contributions were clear—
but whether a promise to foreign exiles would be honored was uncertain.

For Goethe, bordering a politically unstable republic, Weissman’s presence could easily become a spark of trouble.
Eliminating them would be the cleanest solution.

“Don’t worry. If Goethe betrays us, we won’t just sit back and take it.”

Violet said, listening to the wind.

“But it seems a bit early to worry about that.”

The wind whispered in her ear.

Something unnatural was stirring within the city.

“…Just like that boy said again.”

Gerald frowned.